Iseult tore her gaze from his face, forcing her attention ahead. As she pressed low onto the mare’s back and kicked the horse even faster, she prayed that the Moon Mother—or Noden or any other god that might be watching—would help her get out of this city alive.

* * *

Merik stared at the miniature Dalmotti ship gliding over the chart of the Jadansi Sea. It showed that the corresponding trade ship was just hauling wind from the Veñaza City harbors—and Merik wanted to fling the cursed miniature out the window.

The Jana’s Voicewitch, Hermin, sat at the head of the table. Though by no means common, Voicewitches were the most common Aetherwitch, and since they could find and communicate with fellow Voicewitches over vast distances, every ship in the Nubrevnan Royal Navy had one onboard—including Vivia, with whom Voicewitch Hermin was now connected.

Hermin’s eyes glowed pink—a sign he was tapped into the Voicewitch Threads—and afternoon light flickered over his wrinkled face. Distant voices, rattling carts, and clopping hooves drifted in through open windows.

Merik knew he should shut them, but it was too sticky and too hot without the breeze. Plus, the tallow in the lanterns smoked and stank—an even fouler stench than the sewage on the Veñaza City canals.

But Merik thought it was worth saving money with smelly animal fat rather than paying heaps for smokeless Firewitch lanterns. And of course, that was a point upon which he and Vivia disagreed.

One of many.

“I don’t think you understand, Merry.” Though Hermin spoke with his own gravelly voice, he spoke in Vivia’s exact style—all drawled words and condescending emphasis. “The Foxes strike instant fear in foreign navies. Hoisting that flag now will give us a strong advantage when the Great War resumes.”

“Except,” Merik said with no inflection, “we’re here to negotiate peace. And though I agree Fox flags were once effective for intimidation, that was centuries ago. Before the empires had navies to crush ours.”

It seemed so gallant on the surface—attacking trade ships to feed the poor—and tales of the old Fox navies were still favorites back home. But Merik knew better. Stealing from the more fortunate was still stealing, and promising to avoid violence was easier than actually refraining.

“I have one more meeting,” Merik insisted. “With the Gold Guild.”

“Which will fail as all your other meetings have. I thought you wanted to feed your people, Merry.”

Sparks ignited in his chest. “Never,” he growled, “question my desire to feed Nubrevna.”

“You claim you want it, yet when I give you a way to gather food—a way to teach the empires a lesson—you don’t jump at the chance.”

“Because what you propose is piracy.” Merik found it hard to look at Hermin as the Voicewitch continued to croon Vivia’s words.

“What I propose is evening the odds. And may I remind you, Merry, that unlike you, I’ve attended summit meetings before. I’ve seen how the empires crush us beneath their heels. This Aetherwitched miniature is a means of fighting back. All you have to do is tell me when the trade ship reaches the Nubrevnan coast, and then I’ll do all the dirty work.”

All the killing, you mean. It took every piece of Merik’s fragile self-control not to shout that at Vivia … But there was no point. Not when two Voicewitches and a hundred leagues stood between them.

He rolled his shoulders once. Twice. “What,” he finally continued, “does Father say about this?”

“Nothing.” Hermin drawled that word exactly as Vivia would. “Father is on the verge of death, and he stays as silent as when you left. Why he roused himself to name you as envoy and admiral, I’ll never understand … Yet it seems to be working in our favor, for we have an opportunity here, Merry.”

“One that fits very neatly into your strategy for an empire of your own, you mean.”

A pause. “Justice must be served, little brother.” An edge coated Vivia’s words now. “Or have you forgotten what the empires did to our home? The Great War ended for them, but not for us. The least we can do is pay back the empires in kind—starting with a bit of noble piracy.”

At those words, the heat in Merik’s chest lanced outward. Coiled into his fists. Were he with Vivia, he would let this storm loose—after all, she had the same rage simmering in her veins.

When Merik was a boy, his father had been certain that Merik was a powerful witch like his sister, that Merik’s tantrums had been manifestations of a great power within. So at seven years old, King Serafin had forced Merik into the Witchery Examination.

Yet Merik’s tantrums hadn’t been a sign of power at all. Merik had barely been deemed strong enough for a Witchmark, and King Serafin had barely been able to hide his disgust in front of the Examination Board.

That same morning, on the carriage ride back to the royal palace and with Merik’s new diamond tattoo burning on the back of his hand, Merik had learned in sharp, unyielding detail how deep his father’s distaste ran. How a weak prince served no purpose to his family. Merik would be joining his aunt, the Nihar outcast, on the family lands in the southwest.

“You forget,” Hermin said, still articulating Vivia, “who will lead when Father dies. You may have authority right now, but you are only a temporary admiral. I will be queen and admiral when the watery sleep finally claims Father.”

“I know what you will be,” Merik said softly, his anger falling back in the face of cold fear.